


these painted songs of heroes

by gachapon_q



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Follows Canon, Gen, No Beta read we die like men, dream is only there for like (1) line, ignore the fact that i'm pretty sure chekhov's gun is probably a crossbow instead of a sword, it just sounds so good .. when he gets killed by chikhov's gun, liquid is such a good word i'll collapse now, the meaning behind it ......uyyym, this happened like 3 months ago i am so slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gachapon_q/pseuds/gachapon_q
Summary: “I am so - I am so fucking close to pressing this button Phil!” Wilbur finally snaps, drags his arms up, slams his fist against the wall and snatches the fabric of Phil’s collar, clutching it within his shaking fingers.And Phil, in his daze, sees sweat beads run down Wilbur’s forehead and wonders when the light disappeared from behind his son’s eyes.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	these painted songs of heroes

It’s the afternoon of war. Wilbur clings to a protruding shard of diorite, Phil leans on the doorway, his wings curled behind his back.

“What are you doing,” Phil says. Not a question, he’s not stupid - he knows.

It’s a surprise that Phil’s here, and it’s not a surprise that Phil’s found him; he’s always had the knack for it, Wilbur thinks, dipping beneath overgrown bushes and peering into hidden crevices, laughing and laughing all the while.

But he’s not laughing, not anymore, and Phil’s not stupid - he knows what’s WIlbur’s doing. Wilbur’s damned a madman to his death, tugging on his heart till it stopped beating, and now he’s hellbent on tearing this country up, the pull of a promise sitting on his tongue.

It’s a bit sad.

Wilbur remembers screaming and shouting and yelling, he remembers a flare of determination, ruptured red bull blazing in his veins, feeling as if the world was infinite upon his fingertips.

When he was Wilbur, Wilbur soot, president, he built a country, and he’d fucking do it again. But Wilbur, Wilbur Soot, the villain is hung dry, and tired, and he has two stacks of dynamite in his hands, the world is weightless beneath him.

“Phil?”

“Mhm, “ Phil makes a noise of affirmation.

“Yeah, in L’manburg, “ he says, looking around the cavern, his voice echoes and distorts against the cavern walls. 

You’re not supposed to be here, are the unspoken words that fall on deafened ears.

“O-Okay,” Wilbur wipes a bloody hand across his face. “I will admit -”

He motions to the button. “D-Do you know what this button is?” gestures to the occluding walls, “have you heard t-the song on the walls before. Have you heard the song?”  
There are lyrics clawed into the walls. 

Phil can’t say he’s heard it. He’s only just joined the server after all, he wasn’t privy to all the happenings before, he’s only heard chipped recounts of it, of discs and records and children in soldier costumes plunging to their death.

What does Phil even say anyways? The question tugs incessantly at his mind, Wilbur’s heavy breathing and finger scraping goes beneath the noise. How does he justify this raw punctuated silence when his son stands right before him - borderline insane with elation and grief, treading the fine line between destruction and -

“I’m sorry,” is all Phil manages to croak out as his throat closes in on him

The sorry clicks in Wilbur’s mind

Wilbur’s head spins.

“I was just saying, I made this big - “ his shoulders are hunched and he stares hard at the walls, “ - point and it was poignant and -”

Wilbur rakes bloody hands through his hair and a dagger lances itself into Phil’s heart, his eyes are crazed and he’s gesturing madly at the carved words and his heavy breaths echo within the cavern walls. “It’s, t-there was a special place where men could go but - but it’s not there anymore you know,” a pause, “it’s not.”

Phil’s eyes softens. “It’s there, Wil, “ the light pervades the hollowed cavity, there is a sun and clouds, a skyline and a horizon out there, “ you’ve just won it back. “ He places a warm, comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s--”

“Phil!”

-A touch, 

flinch, the hand withdraws-

“I am so - I am so fucking close to pressing this button Phil!” Wilbur finally snaps, drags his arms up, slams his fist against the wall and snatches the fabric of Phil’s collar, clutching it within his shaking fingers. 

And Phil, in his daze, sees sweat beads run down Wilbur’s forehead and wonders when the light disappeared from behind his son’s eyes.

“I’ve been here!” Wilbur’s ragged voice tears through his cracked lips. “Like seven or eight times - oh they’re gonna come, I don’t want them in here --” he breathes and blocks off the last vestiges of sunlight with a handful of dirt, the wall is an ugly patchwork.

“Phil- “ Wilbur’s cut off by his own stomach clenching cough, “- they’re fighting, they’re fighting.” 

And he’s right, there’s a war raging right outside.

“Yeah, “ Phil says, and there’s only pity in his eyes.

“I-”

“You fought so hard to get this land back and-”

“I don’t know if it even works anymore Phil, “ Wilbur breathes. “I could, I could press it and it might - “

Phil slaps his inching hand away. “Do you really want to take that risk?” he’s chuckling nervously, training his gaze to the hollowed cavity packed to the brim with dynamite beyond the wall. “There’s a lot of TNT potentially connected to that button-” 

“Phil, there was a saying Phil, “he continues, “Uh, by a traitor. A traitor, once part of L’manburg. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him but -- Eret?”

“Mhm,” Phil nods, and he finds himself stiffening at the tone of Wilbur’s voice.

“He had a saying Phil - “ a pause, “ - It was never meant to be.” 

Wilbur slams his elbow into the button.

“You didn’t,” Phil says, uselessly. 

“It was never meant to be.”

\--

“Will!” Phil shouts, over the explosive flare of two stacks of detonated dynamite. 

He hears it before he feels it.

He’s flying-

-arcing across the cavern-

The ground caves out beneath them, Phil desperately flings out his hand in a split second of quick thinking, his fingers grasp at air, until they hook onto Wilbur’s trench coat and in a flash of brown-- both of them are thrown into the far corner of the cavern; Phil gasps, the impact knocks the air out of his lungs, Wilbur is dangerously still in his arms.

When the rubble clears, the fractured remains crest around them, fragments of cut limestone scatter across the ground, an edged chip digs into Phil’s skin; Wilbur’s dead weight and the extra load causes Phil to sink further into the uneven ground, the diorite shaving draws blood and Phil bites back a wince.

The smoke dissipates, and Phil swallows down the potent urge to turn away from the sea of peering eyes.

The cavern wall is gone. Phil can finally see the sun. 

A sword clatters at his side. Wilbur stirs with a muffled groan and pushes himself from the ground, Phil follows suit -- hands teetering around his son’s tattered trench coat, unsure of how to help.

His hands fit snugly around the diamond hilt, and Phil’s heart drops when he sees the intricate carvings engraved in the side of the gleaming blade.

“Chekhov’s gun.”

He’s repulsed, and his hands quickly make a move to shove the sword aside, the liquid adrenaline in his veins make his hands shake, but Wilbur yanks him back, his cold, cold fingers easily envelop Phil’s in a loose embrace. Phil recognizes the pleading look in his eyes.

“No, “ he whispers.

Wilbur’s gaze softens.

“You planned this didn’t you?” Phil asks a question he knows the answer to.

Wilbur nods. “I did,” he admits, then laughs, “I woke up this very fine day and thought -- this is a good day to dig my own grave and -" 

Wilbur splays his arms out, a crazed look on his face. He gestures towards the battered walls, the pungent aftertaste of sulfur in the air, a smoking crater where his country used to be. 

“L’manburg-” he hacks out bile from the back of his throat and shudders, “ - my unfinished symphony, forever unfinished.”

He turns to Phil, and there’s something unrecognizable in his gaze.

“Kill me. Phil!”

“No,” he whispers.

“Phil, “ he gasps as another choke surges forward and has him doubling over, bouts of nausea burrows its roots into his gut. The blood laced bile makes a brilliant vibrant spatter against the ground. “ Look at me-- Phil, look at me.”

“No,” Phil echoes, unwilling, knee-deep in denial. He’s never felt this useless since he watched both of his sons depart from home, his two unmoving arms still at his side and the world shifting as they promised to return. Now, when Wilbur brandishes the sword in his hands himself, Phil finally realises the unspeakable emotion in his eyes is that of resignation.

Wilbur’s never had resignation in his eyes, not when the ground beneath them crumbled for the first time, for the second time; there was always determination in his gaze, liquid fire burning in his veins. Where did Wilbur go? And who is this madman standing before him, with his own sword poised at his chest and the look of a thousand old soldiers hardened by the horrors of war?

“Kill, me,” he whispers softly, “it’s only fitting.”

Phil closes his eyes.

There’s a lull shifting beneath the storm, the blood roaring in his ears blot out the background noise. Wilbur’s blood stricken face, a sea of wide prying eyes, cavities specking the ground, a gale tears through his clothes and the cacophony crescendos to an ear piercing shriek --

He pushes the sword through Wilbur’s chest and watches the light fade from his eyes.

“I’m sorry, “ Wilbur murmurs, Phil doubts it is him he’s talking to.

He only smiles, his lips peel back to reveal blood-laced teeth.

He reaches a trembling experimental arm and rests it upon Phil’s hat, and Phil feels the fabric sink under the weight. Then Wilbur turns away, breaking his suffocating gaze to look at the crowd, they’re shell-shocked, wide-eyed.

Phil wraps his arms around WIlbur’s chest, Wilbur brings his hands up to curl around his shoulders. He’s reaching-- reaching for his fingers, a promise tugging on his tongue. Phil closes his eyes at the warmth of the contact, he makes a watery sound in his throat.

When he opens them, he is left with a handful of ash.

\--

Tommy finds out that he hates a lot of things, like thinking, like dynamite, like fire, like the watery sound tearing through his throat right now.

And then he’s running, reaching, his sword carelessly cast aside behind him, but then the ground suddenly fractures and caves beneath his feet and before Tommy knows it, he finds himself on his knees, digging into fragmented sewage infrastructure. Tommy drags himself from the ground with a force fuelled by fury and grief, the cuts marking his knees sting when his battered skin stretches taut.

He takes a long, painful breath, and continues onward. 

When he makes it to the foot of the hill, Phil looks down at him, a shimmering sword clasped in his hand. Chekhov’s gun, Tommy recognizes distantly, Wilbur's sword, he crunches down on an involuntary chortle. Wilbur Soot, revolutionary leader, poet, and his stupid fucking poet pantomime. Did he plan this from the start? 

He looks up.

Phil mouths the words, “I’m sorry.” 

The sword clatters to the floor.

Phil has nothing to apologise for.

Tommy looks over his shoulder, with liquid fire igniting his eyes and meets Dream’s alabaster gaze.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this 2 months ago major wip
> 
> title is from 'zephyrus' by the oh hellos ag


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